


An Always That Tastes Like Gingerbread

by Whispering_Sumire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (as in: everybody's alive because I want them to be), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Christmas, Derek Hale Feels, Derek Hale Needs a Hug, Everybody Lives, Falling In Love, Friendship, Getting Together, Guilt, Handwaving, Heartfelt Conversations, M/M, Pack Bonding, Pack Family, Pack Feels, Post-Nogitsune, Reconciliation, Self-Loathing, just a dash of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-15 18:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16938135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whispering_Sumire/pseuds/Whispering_Sumire
Summary: "If I do," Derek decides, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, voice softer than he'd meant, waving an encompassing hand around, "will you take all this down?"Stiles narrows his eyes, seems to run through a number of possible loopholes before relenting, "Fine.""It was my older brother's favorite holiday." Stiles' heart trips a little, but remains mostly steady, the flowers in his scent gathering droplets of rain as his breath hitches slightly. "And my mom's. We used to—. There was a way we'd—." He trails off, because putting things into words can be a struggle for him when he isn't biting them out or tricking someone or defending himself, which is probably why he'd been such ashitAlpha.Stiles doesn't tell him he can or should stop, but there's something devastatingly understanding in his eyes, like he'd get it if Derek stopped, shut him out, but there're steel shavings glinting in that honey, and there's no doubt in Derek's mind that if he stops now, all these christmas decorations are staying up.(He could probably take them all down on his own, butStiles put them there, dedicated thought and time into it, and Derek doesn't know why that matters, but it does.)





	An Always That Tastes Like Gingerbread

**Author's Note:**

> Soft Trigger Warning :: Derek's inner monologue can be a little hard on himself, and everyone carries their canon traumas, a lot of which are roughly alluded to
> 
>  
> 
> MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Aw, c'mon, dude. It took me a whole _year_ to sneak as much furniture in here as I have—if nothing else, can't you at least admire that it only took me an hour to set this all up?" Stiles asks, gesturing expectantly and gleefully around the loft when Derek confronts him about the decorations he had nothing to do with, didn't _approve_.

Derek glares. "Don't. Call me dude."

Stiles sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and chewing on his bottom lip, seeming considering and maybe... hurt? Something in Derek balks at that, recoils harshly, despite his general confusion. Finally, Stiles ponders, "Why don't you like christmas?"

Derek blinks at the, frankly, incredibly personal question, then wonders why he's so surprised when Stiles' prerogative underneath all his clever-bright sardonic has always been _dig_ and _question_ and _know_.

Derek raises an eyebrow, even as he feels himself go tense, guarded, he doesn't want to talk about this, doesn't like the invasion of faerie-lights and tinsel and holly and pine in his _den_. (He refuses to question why every other change up until now, initiated by Stiles and perpetuated by the rest of the Pack when they realized he wouldn't outwardly or aggressively react, has been acceptable, forgiven with a tacit kind of fondness, despite what den means, _feels_ to him.)

Stiles wrings his hands- literally, and something in Derek loosens at the same time something else knots up- before flapping them, aggrieved, "I don't mean the surface-level bullshit, Sourwolf, or-or, I don't know. Fuck, maybe I do. I'm not good at this, man, just tell me why."

Not good at what, Derek wonders, as honeyed black-tea eyes search him, the warmth and softness and _'please?'_ in them almost too much for him to bear, especially when he's _not used to it_.

He doesn't understand where this is coming from, he's seen... ever since the nogitsune he's seen new, odd facets of Stiles, he's seen _more_ of Stiles, in general, because it doesn't seem to matter to him whether or not Derek's there, or whatever other hindrances may come with doing all his homework, and regularly hanging out, in a place that- until Stiles had laid a certain amount of claim to it- was mostly deserted, only ever vaguely Derek's (how could it belong to him, when he was unwilling to let himself belong to it? Trying to have anything more than a sustainable residence, trying to have a _home_ wasn't... it just wasn't something he should be allowed, wasn't something he _wanted_ , anyway).

Now there's a tv, an xbox, sofas, sitting chairs, a dining table, coffee table, mismatched dishes, overflowing bookshelves, and the lingering scent of dried flowers and rich vanilla saturating everything, every surface polished to gleaming. There's a complex variety of surprisingly healthy food in his fridge, his pantry, and the Pack's begun to make his living room a communal area—where once it would've been rare to see them without seeking them out, now, Erica and Isaac and Boyd are commonly found clustered on the sapphire, crushed felt, lumpy love-seat, Lydia often primly claiming the oaken chair at the head of the dining table, unless Jackson manages to coax her into his lap, Kira and Malia curled into each other on the L camel sofa, Allison on the floor with her back cradled up to someone's legs, Scott never truly minding where he ends up, as long as he has a good view of everyone.

Somehow, Stiles dauntlessly inviting himself in turned into _everyone_ inviting themselves in, suddenly shameless, like all they needed was undeniable proof they wouldn't be rejected, or, probably more accurately, like Stiles' gravitational pull just drew them in, despite the location, and the company.

And, for all that he's gotten more used to having people, Pack, _Stiles_ , in his space, the subtle changes in his and Stiles' relationship are... more difficult to reconcile with—not that he doesn't _like_ them, just. It's always unexpected, a surprise, when Stiles draws closer, instead of pulling away with something brave and antagonistic coating his too-sharp tongue, when his poking and prodding is inquisitive instead of assumptuous and protective (from him, not of him, unless Scott isn't in the room, and, _then_ , even when they'd been little more than allies at best, Stiles manages to always do whatever means Derek will at least be a modicum of alive by the end, almost like he can't even help himself), when he's planted himself neatly, unbudgingly, and uncaring what Derek's opinions are on the matter, into the _friends_ column.

"If I do," Derek decides, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, voice softer than he'd meant, waving an encompassing hand around, "will you take all this down?"

Stiles narrows his eyes, seems to run through a number of possible loopholes before relenting, _"Fine."_

"It was my older brother's favorite holiday." Stiles' heart trips a little, but remains mostly steady, the flowers in his scent gathering droplets of rain as his breath hitches slightly. "And my mom's. We used to—. There was a way we'd—." He trails off, because putting things into words can be a struggle for him when he isn't biting them out or tricking someone or defending himself, which is probably why he'd been such a _shit_ Alpha.

Stiles doesn't tell him he can or should stop, but there's something devastatingly understanding in his eyes, like he'd get it if Derek stopped, shut him out, if this was as far as he could go, but there're steel shavings glinting in that honey, and there's no doubt in Derek's mind that if he stops now, all these christmas decorations are staying up.

(He could, of course, probably take them all down on his own, but... _Stiles put them there_ , dedicated thought and time into it, and Derek doesn't know why that matters, but it does.)

"I didn't know about the Nemeton, then, I don't think anyone did, except mom and Deaton, but Phillip was human, and he had. He just _knew_ things, sometimes. Every christmas I can remember, he'd always- and no one ever knew _how_ \- make the tree, and all its' ornaments, everything, _disappear_ , and he'd always say there was a bigger tree that needed our attention, our care, and mom would burst out laughing, every time. It became a tradition, we'd get a tree, put it up, decorate it, and in the morning there'd be a pile of presents on stray pieces of pine-needles, but no tree to be found.

"Without fail," Derek took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, trying to keep the tightness out of his throat, the mist out of his tone, "every christmas, someone would ask him why he did it, and he'd say that, and mom would laugh, and then he'd bake these-" a bubble of wet laughter catches him off-guard, drowns his nostalgiac, guilt-stained words, but doesn't manage to stay them any- "really _terrible_ pies and cookies as some sort of apology, and he'd be so earnest when he gave them to us that we'd eat them all, even though he was an awful cook and they were—." He chokes on the rest, and wonders distantly when he'd gotten to this point with Stiles, where crying is something he's capable of in front of him.

"Der," Stiles breathes, just a little broken, raw, aching.

"No one's going to steal the tree," Derek mutters, backing away, because he _can't be here_ , he _shouldn't have said anything_ , he has no idea why he did. Stiles moves, like he's going to reach out, before shrinking back with a crumpled grimace.

"Okay," he whispers, rasping and crackling like the tiniest, wind-blown candle-flame. "Okay. Fuck the tree, then, fuck the decorations, fuck all that, but, uh. I'm still. I'm still going to get you a present—not because—not... just—. Because I care about you and I want to, so I'm going to. And we're going to watch really shitty hallmark movies and go sledding and have snowball fights and—"

"Why?" Derek breaks in without even entirely meaning to; he hates the way his voice wavers, shatters, splits at the seams.

"Because," Stiles sighs, picking at his fingers and biting his bottom lip with a furrowed brow, thoughtful, before decisively padding forward and, with an unexpected amount of tendered strength, uncrossing Derek's arms to take his hands firmly in his. "Because I want... I want you to be _happy_ , I want you to be able to celebrate this stupid fucking holiday, and I... I bet you ten ribbons and a sprig of mistletoe that the Hales Beyond The Veil want that, too. And, considering Lydia actually voluntarily, _enthusiastically_ helped me with this, I bet you all the money I have to my name- which is only about twenty dollars, honestly- that I'm not the only one who's going to be pressing this point."

Irises like little wells of liquid sunlight sparkle up at him, the depth of them breathtaking, overwhelming. "I know you have... _guilt_ issues, and martyr issues, and _happiness_ issues, but I swear to you, Derek Hale, you're going to have a merry fucking christmas if it _kills_ me."

Derek swallows past the lump that's formed in his throat, the strain of his hollowly beating heart. He wants to ask why Stiles cares so much, but he's... he's afraid of what the answer will be, and Stiles, through something like anguished empathy, but nothing like pity, is looking at him so sincerely that all Derek can manage is a slight inclination of his head in response, which Stiles must take as agreement, because he's suddenly smiling _brilliantly_ , all that sun in his eyes spilling out into the normally shadowed, suffocating room, before the boy quickly leans in to press a chaste kiss soundly to his cheek.

He's all sharpened mischief, determined strategist, childish glee, and _dimples_ when he pulls back.

"Awesome," he says, a promise soaked in benediction, and Derek honestly can't find it in himself to even be apprehensive about this. It's terrifying, and he doesn't understand what he could've possibly done to deserve it, but a rush of effervescent excitement bubbles in his veins, his cheek still tingling with the sweet-glow sensation of Stiles' lips as the boy spins on his heel and sets about destroying all that plastic holiday cheer he'd set up with an air of tenacious ruthlessness that would probably rival even _Peter's_.

Privately, discreetly, and so sharply it stuns him, he wonders what his elder brother would think of Stiles, what his mother would, what _Laura_ would.

* * *

Christmas, or, well, the whole of december, comes bustling through his life with everything Stiles promised and more.

The Pack gathers around him, and it's different, because they aren't circling Stiles anymore, they're focusing on him, and one by one, they lay their resentments bare.

Allison knows, now, that it was the Code that'd killed her mother, the moment he told her, it had struck so right and true that she made a _new_ fucking Code. "I loved my mother. Sometimes I hated her, but she was the strongest woman I ever knew, and I loved her, and then she died and this man who I thought I could trust, who I thought was family, who made it seem like I could be strong like her if I _avenged_ her, who made it seem like I'd never be weak again if I listened to him—he told me it was your fault, and I believed him, and then I just kept blaming you because it was _easier_ , because losing her _hurt_ , and I hate hurting like that, I hated what it turned me into, I hated what I'd done to your Betas, and...

"I want to change. I want to be better and stronger because I—I can't _stand_ the thought of being so weak, so _powerless_ , but. I can be strong, I can be a _good hunter_ , and still. I still want to be a good person.

"I think—. You're the same, aren't you?" So soft, incrementally hopeful, wide, tremulous milk-chocolate eyes boring into him.

There's only one possible answer to that, after everything, after realizing that hiding in his big sister's, his mother's, shadow, whilst simultaneously being eaten alive by chaotic rage, by terror that he tried to suppress, only made him a _terrible_ mentor, a worse Alpha, that he'd been floundering, over and over again, drowning and awkwardly holding onto ideas that made no sense and he didn't even realize until—well.

He thinks Stiles might care about him, beyond Derek just being... integral to his survival. He thinks Stiles... might not be the only one.

He is _scared_.

What if they're all swept up in fire, too? what if they repeat his mistakes? what if _he_ repeats his mistakes? what if he wakes up tomorrow and these fragile bonds are charred, ash, lost, and he ends up alone, adrift, again?

Does he deserve this? can he have this? _should_ he?

He doesn't want to be powerless, he doesn't want to be a monster, _'the Bite is a Gift'_.

A good person, he thinks, a good hunter, a good werewolf, a good _person_. "Yes," he rasps, and it comes out of his mouth like frothy droplets of infected blood, torn from his throat by shards of broken, pitch-coated glass.

She doesn't say anything else, but she smiles, achingly, because she probably knows better than anyone how hard it was to realize, to say, that, salt-water sparkling in dewy eyes, bittersweet dimples, and a small, dignified sniff. Ten seconds later, he's sitting beside her on the couch, watching the worst christmas themed rom-com he's ever seen. He keeps involuntarily snarling and sneering at it, and he thinks that Allison's more entertained by his running commentary- which oscillates between extremely dry sarcasm and base, animal reactions to the stupidity- than the actual movie.

The loft smells like burnt popcorn well into the new year, but their packbond goes from being oily and taut to being clean, petrichor gossamer.

Isaac comes with Scott, and there aren't as many words between them, there can't be, it's. Tacit. Ferine. As an Alpha, in an idiotic attempt to save him, he'd abandoned Isaac, and his history with Scott was just plain _complicated_ , first as a man more hellbent on finding the rogue Alpha than anything else, and willing to manipulate, lash out, push, shove, ignore that blaring alarm in his head that rang _these are just kids, you're supposed to be the adult here, what the fuck are you doing?_ then as an Alpha desperately in need of a Pack to stabilize his already imbalanced power, and clueless, for all that he tried to pretend he knew what he was doing, for all that he did _try_ , now as a Beta, or something akin, who just doesn't know where he stands.

Scott takes him by the arm, and there's forgiveness and acceptance in his eyes that Derek feels is wholly unearned.

Two hours later finds the three of them running through the Preserve, soaked to the bone, chilled, snowball-shaped bruises fading even as they grab more snow off the ground, the wolf riding through them, all of them Beta-shifted, fangs and claws bared, the sun still shining on them, no moon in sight, no moon needed. They are free and they are together and they are Pack, and they howl with it, feed their wolf-songs to the branches and the sky, as red, gold, blue threads braid together, silky cords, thick and frayed, but clear and brutally honest and _there_.

The next day, Boyd and Erica join in, but not before they tell him, "We ran away. We had our reasons, and you... you could've been better, but you were our Alpha, you were Pack, _family_ , and we ran away from you." A shrug. "We were kids. We were scared."

"You were right," Derek tells them, swallows harshly when they look at him, dumb-struck. "I would've gotten you killed." He breathes in, exhales sharply. "I still might."

Erica and Boyd trade glances before their distinctly fierce eyes return to him. "We were all idiots," Erica decides, punching his shoulder, _hard_ , before reeling him into a hug that Boyd immediately steps into after. "So let's be less stupid, now, 'kay?"

Derek shudders a little, melts into them, and two copper-soaked piles of fools' gold land in his heart, tie tiny, honeycomb ribbons around his soul and _tug_. "Okay," he agrees, breathless, warmth blooming quickly just beneath his chest.

Lydia comes next with a book, Jackson behind her and a little to the right, his eyes vaguely unsettled. "Do you remember when you insinuated that you couldn't trust me because I resurrected your evil uncle?" she asks briskly, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

Derek presses his lips together, but nods because... well, he _had_.

"Do you also remember when you were trying to kill me without sufficient evidence, without telling me what was going on, and then killed my boyfriend right in front of me?"

Jackson looks torn between an incredibly discomfited, trepidatious frown and a gamely, smug smirk.

"Yes," Derek grits, a growl sewn into the word.

"Well," Lydia says, placing the single, light book on the table, and, with a sharp cutting motion, having Jackson heave his much larger, heavier pile up onto the wooden surface with a solid thud. "I don't know how your uncle _took over my mind and made me do things I never would've willingly done_ , or how me just being there brought Jackson out of the kanima-state- and, no, I don't believe for a second anything the man who tormented me from beyond the grave said about it, thank you- or how Jackson is even _alive_ and suddenly a _wolf_ , and I hate not knowing more than I resent you for resenting me for something that _wasn't my fault_ —besides, Stiles is determined to make this the best christmas the Pack has ever experienced, since it's the first one where we're all actually together, not in any immediate danger, and." She sighs, sitting down, forcing him to take the seat in front of her with barely more than a Look.

"He's my friend, now," she murmurs softly, but there's something in her sea-glass eyes, jaded and small, holding on desperately, bravely, fiercely, a kindness and a fondness, gratefulness, for the boy she's speaking of, "and this is the first time I've seen him really want something since the nogitsune, so." She clears her throat softly, opens a book, "I'm going to make it happen, even if my abilities as an interior decorator have been dismissed."

Then, without any further explanation, she slides a few books over to him, and he ends up, despite himself, studiously researching with her as Jackson moves over to the tv, starts bingeing some random show. Later on, the other wolves trickle in, and by the time the sun's setting, Derek, Lydia, Scott, Allison, and Stiles (who'd been delightedly surprised by this turn of events. Derek wonders if he realizes he's the _cause_ of them) are poring over books about Banshees and Necromancy and how identity and chaos magic factor into both, while the rest are all curled into each other on the couch, fallen asleep in a cuddle-puddle to The Grinch, of all things.

"I'm sorry," Derek will tell her later, as she goes to leave, a sleepy Jackson in tow. He doesn't say, _for being wrong, about so many things, for trying to kill you, for blaming you for something that wasn't your fault,_ but he thinks she might read it in his grimace, tight shoulders, ducked head.

Stiles' heart trips behind him, and his scent swells, fills the whole room with _pride_. Derek tries to ignore it.

Lydia smiles, all her mercury gone wind-chime silver, softened by exhaustion and tempered by time spent. "I forgive you."

The next day, Jackson initiates a run through the woods turned sparring snowball fight, Allison, Lydia, and Stiles joining in until they run out of energy, and then going back to the loft to continue researching as they wait for them. Derek doesn't think he's ever seen Stiles smile so wide, the sunlight reflecting off the snow, saturating everything in blinding light, coating all that mischievous fragile-wild in sugar and technicolored joy.

An eery, piano-wire steel line forms, tangled with a tortured, luminescent, scale-slither, radioactive blue, weaving into the nobs of his spine, pleased and ambitious and triumphant.

Kira and Malia join in on the reindeer games a day later, smelling like they rolled around in each other's scents, their cheeks flushed with the exhilaration and the chill, their hands laced as often as possible. Malia full-shifts and catches snowballs in her maw with a playful, yipping growl, Kira slices through snow with her katana and giggles, lost to the childish delight of the moment.

Their packbonds, one sleek, glimmering, a shade off scarlet, the other sloe-blue with gold flecks, click into place easy, honest, and unwanting.

Stiles comes to him, later, after everyone has, regardless of how Derek might've felt about the matter, laughingly toppled onto his bed and passed out in it, their bodies overlapping, tangled, like their packbonds are, and while nothing in the world could ever replace his loss, he's beginning to think that certain balms might be able to convince raw, gaping wounds to finally _scar_.

It's still only christmas eve, and after this whirlwind of a month, he honestly doesn't know what tomorrow will bring but he's... okay with that. More okay with it than he'd been yesterday, more than he'd been in november, more than he'd been at the beginning of all this, when his second Alpha, eldest sister, and last packmate had died three years ago.

A willowy hand extends, long, bony fingers wrapped around a stick that holds salted-caramel chocolate covered marshmallows, offering it to him along with a ridiculous snoopy-clause mug filled with homemade eggnog. Stiles' cinnamon-laced black-tea eyes coat Derek in gentled happiness, a proud sort of joy, relief and satisfaction, when he smiles, just as the clock strikes twelve, _"Merry christmas,_ Der."

Derek's heart clenches, struck with the fact that this haunted, charming, _idiot_ somehow wrapped this Pack, this family, around him, and then around _Derek_ , with the crook of his finger and a blistering prayer, all because he just.

He _cared_.

He doesn't even want anything in return, it doesn't make any sense, but what _does_ is that—when Derek digs through all the threads that have been gathered, soaked in all their individuality, saturated in a spectrum of color, he finds the one that had been there all along, though it used to recoil and hiss like a cat thrown into a freezing lake, used to be as neglected as Erica, Boyd, and Isaac's had been, when he was clueless, trying but damaged and broken and _clueless_ , was, once, curdled and rotted, a bitten off shriek at the end of a neverending nightmare, and is, now... soft. Possibly the strongest packbond Derek has, an edge of protective steel under the mantle of a cottony cocoon that breathes, honest and hopeless and just a little resigned, _love_.

He wonders when, exactly, he'd latched onto him; when, through antagonism and worry and suspicion, Stiles had let him; when, through idiocy, Alphas, Darachs, and a fucking _chaos demon_ , he'd realized that Stiles would always, always come back for him.

That he'd always, always come back for Stiles.

That he _loves_ him, through all the trauma-ridden graveyards in his head that scream that he'll end up with the taste of ash in his mouth, with yet another innocent, beautiful person's blood on his hands, through the guilt and the grief. It's christmas, and he _loves_ him, and maybe, just maybe...

Maybe he's allowed.

"Stiles," Derek murmurs, and the boy hums, cocking his head a little, still holding out the mug and the sweets, lips still slanted up, eyes settled, tender, and Derek tilts forward until he can feel that smile against his mouth, taste it on his tongue when Stiles gasps. The hummingbird heart beating so close to his thunders as lightly trembling arms wrap around his neck. Eggnog gets recklessly spilled, but they're both too busy finding _home_ in each others' mouths to really fucking care.

Derek bites at Stiles' bottom lip and the boy mewls, shivers, melts deeper into their embrace as Derek licks back inside, chases the flavor of buttery chocolate and sweet-milk and cherry syrup, a rumble resonating deep within his chest. Stiles hangs onto him clutchingly, like he's half afraid that if he lets go Derek might run away (he would have, he has been, he hopes he won't anymore); he half climbs up Derek's body until his legs are wrapped around his waist, Derek's hands holding his thighs to keep him stable, and he doesn't so much draw away as let his lingering, half needy kisses drift to the side of Derek's mouth, to his jaw, sucks an infuriatingly temporary mark of burning temptation into Derek's pulse-point with a hitched moan before just nuzzling in and _clinging_.

Derek lets him, holds him, presses his lips to a constellation of moles on Stiles' shoulder and _breathes_. He has a feeling he isn't about to let go any time soon. Honestly, the idea of letting go, now, might terrify him more than holding on does.

Which is a whole nother level of frightening all on its' own.

But there's just the slightest chance that a selfless, debilitatingly loyal, tenacious boy with honey-soaked eyes might've influenced him a little in the bravery department.

"Dude," Stiles sighs into the side of his neck, "I totally thought I was going to have to make the first move."

Derek chokes on a startled guffaw, loud enough that Isaac stirs in the other room and hisses at them to shut the fuck up, to which Stiles adamantly replies, "No, we will not. Every time Derek laughs an angel gets their wings and it's a beautiful fucking thing."

"Oh my _god_ , why? Why am I surrounded by disgusting lovebirds?" Which, considering his explicit and excessively adorable budding relationship with Scott and Allison...

"Karma!" Stiles calls without missing a beat, then giggles into the scruff on Derek's cheek as Isaac grumbles himself back to sleep.

"Lovebirds, huh?"

Stiles shifts a bit, looking down at Derek's face with sunlight pouring out of his eyes, his very heart, every ounce of his strength and fragility in the way he grins, prays, "Do you want to be?"

Derek doesn't even hesitate.

_"Yes."_


End file.
